


All art is quite useless

by Midnight_Literacy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Biblical Allusions (Abrahamic Religions), Brainwashing, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Gaslighting, Grooming, Hallucinations, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Royalty, Violence, Will Graham Knows, baby!Will, kid!Hannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27668855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnight_Literacy/pseuds/Midnight_Literacy
Summary: Will has always been wise for his years, understanding and loving of Hannibal above all else, but even he cannot accept this. “This--this is sick, Hanni,” he whispers.The pet name is innocent, sweet, and Hannibal finds a pit grow in his stomach. He growls, low, but his face remains calm; he cannot be mad, cannot. “It is a fault, a corruption, an absence of charm, to find ugliness in beautiful things, Will, but you will learn.” He carefully paraphrases a favourite of Will’s, hoping to shed understanding upon his own designs. “I can help you learn.”“This is far from beautiful.” A conviction. “You--you’re...I don’t know how to help you,” he sobs, eyes shiny and wet with frustration, with love. That’s all Hannibal needs.There will be time to learn, if only Will is willing.-Mischa is dead. Hannibal runs to his uncle instead of the orphanage, and finds a baby on the train with her glassy eyes and soft curls.
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Lady Murasaki, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 94





	1. The moon poisons the sky

**Author's Note:**

> Way Down We Go - by KALEO  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-7IHOXkiV8
> 
> Way Down We Go - by KALEO (Hannibal edit)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Mb8sXeywpY

Years down the road, Hannibal will think of his desperation, his ferality, as base, as animalistic. It will not be as glorious. It will not be a design. It will be nothing but a choice -- uncivilised, and shameful yet necessary. It will smudge on his prestigious mold, seeping into the crevices of his skin that he can hide, but not from himself, not from Will.

He rushes through the snow in nothing but a thin, white shirt. It's soaked through with dirt and blood and the stains that will never leave his skin, a point of shame, a source of pedantry. He hears harsh breathing, likely his own. It’s nothing but white, white, white, but his vision is red and his arms pump as he runs, far, far away; his toes, bare, already seize, turning purple at the very tips while his nostrils flare with exertion and caution. He doesn’t dare stop. 

A rip of something primal, something painful and mourning, tears out of his chest as it numbs. It doesn’t matter anymore -- he does not have to be quiet. The winds, unyielding and harsh, muffle his anguish and cover his tracks, but they are allies to none, obscuring his vision and filling his lungs with icy breath. The strange pleasure of the numbness spreads across his chest, grips his heart, and for a moment he muses that it’s quite akin to relaxation, of safety. Perhaps some pagan god of old, at the creation of man, thought it reprieve to grant them this blessing of pain and pleasure that becomes _too much_ , yet is the only thing that stops worse demons likes bloodlust and unease. 

He laughs, using precious oxygen. It’s hysterical. It’s because it’s hysterical at all.

He runs.

There is no escape from the snow. It seems to stretch on forever and forever and forever, unyielding to man, wrapping him up in its embrace. It's cold, so very cold. All that drives him forward is the need to survive, to arise victorious, never allowing anyone the satisfaction of feasting on his flesh. He will survive, though it’s hard to convince himself of that right now.

There is a soft hand to his cheek.

His arms ache, he thinks. He thinks of the way his body is failing him, then banishes them one by one. It will work for now.

The fingers trail across the faint freckles on his nose.

Hannibal shrugs it off, knowing it to be nothing but an illusion his fevered mind has conjured. He doesn’t succumb to such desires, despite having enough to spare but twice the practicality to make up for it. He just needs to arrive at town, buy a ticket, and run. He just needs to bide his time, and do what he must.

Small, soft fingers that have long since lost their fat, bones close to the surface, prod him right under the eye. 

He ignores the touch, ignores the tears.

But the hand is persistent and Hannibal...Hannibal gives. Hunger and chill have stripped him of his control, and he’s always been softer for his darling, less far away, holding her to the standards of gods and angels. But even that doesn’t fit. Mischa will never be as cold in the name of righteousness; she is sunshine and far more humane than any of the alien-esque beings painted on the ceilings of churches. 

Mischa doesn’t ask him why his chest rumbles with sobs. She doesn’t ask why it’s cold. She only sits, warm, heart beating, in his stomach, between his teeth, in the back of his throat. She’s gorgeous and sweet and the only place she can stay that way is within his mind.

A small voice unhelpfully supplies that he had hungered for her flesh, despite knowing it for what it was. Starvation is a wicked mistress that held Hannibal in her hands for mere moments, enough for him to ravenously chew into her meat with relish, lick her bones clean, drink his fill with her blood. It is a fact that he must simply live with now.

Time and time again, as the snow crunches beneath his feet and snow dusts his hair, he cries and laughs and shakes and his feet pound because he must. In the face of such pain, pain you cannot afford to go down with it, all you can do is laugh, and laugh, and laugh. He remembers softly, with the edges of his consciousness -- any more and he will well and truly go. It’s Mischa, laughing and twirling in the gardens with a wreath of myrtles in her hair, wheat and vitality. It’s Mischa, next to him, content to lull to sleep with his voice washing over her in waves. It’s Mischa, her birthday, beautiful and--

No. Hannibal will not taint this one. He has allowed himself enough.

But his mask is gone and with it his self control. Images of Mischa in a soft pink--

_No!_

She’s dancing with their father, him softer than Hannibal can ever remember with his baby girl in his arms, her giggling and child like with the roundness of fat clinging to her cheeks--

_No...no._

Hannibal is watching with their mother, proud, happy. He remembers his skin tight, his heart bursting with love; it’s perhaps the first and only time he has truly known what it means to have a child. In the present, he smiles crookedly, his muscles ease. But in his memories, he knows what will happen eight days after her birthday, in the dead of night, everything, all that is Mischa and good and sunlight, will be gone.

It’s strange how the fall into hell forces you to stare at the face of God, who has rejected you, because you weren’t _good_ enough within the circumstances dealt to you. God shakes his head, now.

“No,” he cries, like a wounded animal, “No, please.”

The memory will not go. The memory is persistent, reminding him again and again and again that Mischa is _gone and he has lost his anchor to the world, his Achilles heel exposed and maimed again and again._

The winds swallow his cries. The world is cruel, his mind even crueler with memories. It’s an invitation to something before he knew Mischa’s beauty.

He knows. Hannibal knows that if he submits to the darkness now, he will survive if he fights it and wins, but there will be no turning back, not if he wants to live again after that. His father didn’t teach him much, but he did teach him this -- “It’s all or nothing, boy, don’t be a _girl_. What do you choose?”

He chooses to live. But he takes Mischa with him.

He thinks he will be okay with not committing, with never being fully realised of his potential, if only he gets to keep her -- and no one has the right to deny him of that fact, not even his father. Afterall, it’s hard to object when your body has been ripped apart by pigs; that, even Hannibal knows, is the natural order of things. For once, he will not challenge that ideology.

Hannibal lets that acceptance wash over him. His choice is his, and now he will survive to pay penance to himself, washing the world with blood in Mischa’s name. He strangles the emotions, focusing on the physical way they grip his body --the numbness, the chill in his blood, the way his ears burn -- and banishes them far away.

“I will survive. I will survive. I will survive,” he chants like a mantra, in sync with his heaves. It stills him, gives him something else to focus on as he races down a familiar path down to the city. He knows, once there, he has one option and one option only -- run, again. Selling his heirloom watch is a necessary evil, one he has made peace with. Objects are not him; he is what must live on. It is still, cold against his breast as it swings from the chain. The glass is broken and he hands on it died with Mischa this night, never able to move or live.

Hannibal finds that fitting. She will have a companion in heaven, because he doubts he could ever be the one.

So Hannibal leaps into hell, if only he can avoid the face of God, condemning and fearful.

* * *

It’s colder in hell than the poets describe.

* * *

The watch disappears behind the counter and what he receives in return seems measly -- dry rations, water, boots, dry socks, a coat missing its silk lining, with barely enough change for a train ride to his family home. He doesn’t like his indebtedness, but his uncle may be the only one who can offer him any semblance of safety. 

Once he arrives at the Lecter estate, he has no doubt Robert Lecter will offer him asylum. Afterall, he needs an heir, and Hannibal has never been introduced to formal society. With their close looks, they could pass as father and son. A transaction. Mutual benefit, if you will.

In time, he must die for Hannibal to rise. For now, he will be a stepping stone.

A wheeze snaps him out of his thoughts -- smoker’s lungs.

The man at the store is a rude thing, uncouth, cigar hanging off his lips as he sneers down at Hannibal, telling him this is all a _broken fuckin' watch worth what, horse shit?_ can afford during these times, that he needs to raise his family too. 

Hannibal feels no sympathy. He smiles politely, shrugs on the items of clothing, pockets the items deep in the inner pockets of the coat, and walks out. The cracks in his mask are a sign of inexperience, no doubt anyone with any intellect at all can see through and see the annoyance, but the owner is none the wiser. In time it will be perfected, and Hannibal will ensure he never forgets this slight.

The pig -- pig feels a fitting metaphor, covered in dirt and exists only to feed -- grins, wiping his hands down on a greasy butcher’s apron, teeth yellow and crooked and riddled with holes. These imperfections that do not elevate him, are not forgivable, not like the stray strands of Mischa’s hair, or the bitten fingernails of his mother; these imperfections are only sources of vileness.

Behind him, the owner coughs loudly. 

Somehow, Hannibal knows he’s admiring the watch in the light. Even without its glass, the carvings are of molten gold and history, carrying it around or selling it for more will only attract attention -- this is the only thought that keeps Hannibal from taking the hatchet off of the wall and cutting off the disgusting hand tainting his things. He must be patient.

But he does allow his fingers to trail and snatch up a small piece of candied fruit. Mischa’s favourite. It will be a fine offering.

* * *

Hannibal pays for a ticket silently. The attendant looks as interested as he is, bordering on rude.

He sits, and waits, curled up on a seat far in the corner. The plushness of the seat has worn down, or has perhaps never been there at all. Springs poke him through the coat.

The station is mostly empty at this time of night, nearly witching hour, the moon poisoning the sky with its softness. Hannibal wants to tear it down and replace it with the sun; Mischa always preferred the sun. He looks away from the window, to the passengers that he will likely be spending the next few hours with. It’s not a long ride, but enough for him to dread a loud -- or even worse, unclean, uncouth, too friendly -- seatmate. It’s quiet now, blessedly. 

There is only a mother. Matronly, is what Hannibal thinks. She has on a peasant’s gown, bonnet tight around her face, a large cloak swung over her shoulders. It’s odd, because she has the telltale features of a French woman, but she does not seem at all pleased or relieved at the German retreat. She looks how Hannibal’s mother looked when the tank got too close to the lodge -- horrified, awfully maternal, with an unhealthy lack of self-preservation. 

Mischa, from beside him, whispers, “You're people-watching again, Hannibal. Daddy doesn't like that.”

It conjures far away memories of his father, the now late Count Lecter, smacking the back of his head for his oddness. He remembers now, his father with his gruff voice and spit, telling to look away, to not be a freak. 

Hannibal doesn’t look over. He knows he won't see anything. But he does respond quietly, trying not to move his lips. “She will not notice, saulytė. She will not notice. See how her brows furrow and her hands squeeze.” It's a familiar thing, to explain, to teach, because he has been doing so since Mischa could open her eyes. The role of the provider and the learner, the man and the child, established since the dawn of civilisation, is quite fitting.

In the woman's arms are a swaddle of blankets that she bounces absentmindedly, hands twisted into the fabric until her knuckles are white. Her face turns paler by the moment, tinged green after thirty ticks of the clock. She is elsewhere.

He files this away.

“Look,” Mischa gasps in wonder, but Hannibal hasn’t looked away.

Cautiously, a head peeks out of the blankets, soft brown curls tucked into a knitted cap, with wind-chaffed cheeks. Eyes, blue, maybe green, maybe grey, dart around; they’re too far away to truly tell. But all Hannibal can see then are the endless sea, consuming, a beast that will tear them apart and rebirth them anew.

Hannibal is enthralled. 

It seems a lifetime ago when Mischa was this small, yet no time at all. He can see it clearly, a head of sparse golden curls, bright blue eyes, _bowed lips_ \--

No. Mischa’s lips were not quite as thin.

The ache settles back into his chest, slotting itself between his ribs and into his lungs, not quite the right fit which would explain the hurt. It hurts. The axe flashes before his eyes.

Hannibal flinches. He imagines his mother’s voice, soothing, imagines her telling him to think of the lake behind their temporary home. She’s holding him to her chest, Mischa not yet born, still a small thing within her belly, but Hannibal can hear the heartbeat over a backdrop of froth. _The babbling, the fish jumping out of the currents, the--_

Red, against the side of the cabin.

He tugs the coat tighter around himself. It’s colder now but the coat burns his skin. He will only look at the clock and nothing else, not even for the babe’s delighted shrieks; curiosity at its causation is not worth indulging. But he knows Mischa will want to know, and he does too.

Hannibal turns. The baby is staring right back. Mischa coos -- “He looks like me, doesn’t he?”

Hannibal already knows the answer. So instead, he blinks slowly at this child, so innocent, so intelligent, with a mother who doesn’t notice a strange boy with a large coat looking right at her baby. Plans start concocting in his head, just to get closer, just to look closer at those eyes. He wants to know what colour they are then maybe some more. Maybe.

He blinks.

The baby’s answering smile is gummy.


	2. Pan sends word

There are places in the world that make you feel disconnected from mortality and time itself. Open fields. Empty cellars. It’s nothing but unsettling, where you cannot help but feel alone in the most delectable ways.

The train rumbles beneath Hannibal like a beast in its slumber. The tracks are rusted ahead, dusted with a thin layer of frost that threaten to topple them over if not for the carriages’ behemoth weight. He presses his cheek against the cold glass, numb, but yet somehow soothing to the heat of anger burning deep within his chest. It rattles his skull.

Mischa is quiet, her presence faint beside him. In his fatigue, she only stays in her periphery, but disappears just as Eurydice does when he looks. So he doesn’t. He stares at the wintery landscape whipping past them instead.

It’s a blur of white. Occasionally, his eyes will catch a deer that he can only acknowledge after they are long past. He sinks into the feeling, allowing time to wash over him like the cold batters into his frail body, just being in a wash of calm and otherworldly calm.

Hannibal remembers a time when they were on a train. It was the last time, the only other time, when they were younger, right when the war heightened and they had to hide. He doesn’t know when that became ‘fleeing’ instead. 

He’s handed a blanket. It’s warm.

The train rumbles along its tracks and Hannibal goes under, safe, at least in his mind and empty compartments.

* * *

_ “Mischa, settle down,” Simonetta chides half-heartedly. She hands off her extravagant feathered hat to a maid as she folds her outer coat over an elbow. “We are in public,  _ _ dukrytė, do behave.” _

_ Mischa blinks, eyes wide and innocent. She nods with a giggle. “Yes, Mama.” Her words are slurred, that of a child barely starting to understand where to slot their tongue and teeth and lips. The maid carrying her readjusts her hold then heads into the cabin with Simonetta, leaving Hannibal with his father. _

_ Hannibal stands, hands behind his back. He waits for...something, but his eyes trail behind Mischa’s shadow. _

_ “Hannibal,” Count Lecter says, “when we arrive we will not have the luxury of maids for you and your sister.” He pauses and Hannibal nods curtly. “Good, because Chiyoh -- while capable -- is primarily your guard, not someone to wait on you.” _

_ “I understand, father.” _

_ But there is something else, something else he hasn’t quite said. “I expect you to care for your sister.” _

_ “I understand, father.” _

_ “And that means--” his voice drops dangerous low, stern as if Hannibal isn’t as learned as he is “--I do not want to see any of your freakishness, do you understand? If you hurt her and upset your mother in any way, I will see you disciplined.” _

_ Hannibal quietly processes this accusation, but perhaps his reaction confirms his father’s worst fears of all -- the fact that he has none. He can see it, the shock and appallment seep into the eyes of Count Lecter, the face of an old-world nobility facing down what he must perceive to be the devil wearing his son’s face. _

_ Hannibal smiles politely. “I will not hurt Mischa, father, do not worry. She is the most precious thing to me, more precious than gold and silver. No one will take her away,” he promises, not caring if his father registers the genuine protectiveness there. But it would make matters much simpler if he does. _

_ Without another word, he bows curtly then brushes past almost rudely. There are no servants, and his father is in shock. It will not matter.  _

_ He finds Mischa easily in their compartment. As maids and attendants of the train itself carry off their luggage and bring them wine and sticky sweet cakes, as if there are not millions starving across the world at this very moment, as if war isn't being waged and men dying by the second, Hannibal slips past the busy bodies with ease. They give him a wide breadth, purely because of his station. Soon, when he hones his skills, everyone will part for the mention of his name. _

_ “Mother,” he greets simply. _

_ She looks up with a sweet smile, away from Mischa. “Hannibal, do sit.” _

_ He does, but his attention is not on her. He takes a small rattle from his pocket, hand-carved from fragrant hard-wood, complete with delicate beads that dangle and hit the sides of the drum when shook.  _

_ “Saulytė, do you like it? It is for you,” he says as he strokes Mischa’s soft curls. He demonstrates, twisting his wrist this way and that.  _

_ Mischa stares, enraptured by the soft sounds it makes -- it is as clear as the brook behind their home, the hollowness of the drum providing wonderful fullness. “For me?” She laughs. She’s delighted, clapping her hands and already grabbing for it without an answer. _

_ Hannibal does not mind her rudeness, for it cannot be rude from the face of such an angel. He places it in her fist, carefully wrapping her fingers around it. “Yes, it’s for you. Hold tight, now.” _

_ Eyes lit up with glee as she tries it out for herself, Hannibal’s heart rushes with pride. And he continues to sit there, fondly, pushing the curls back from her eyes when it droops, until the train starts and takes them far, far away from home. _

* * *

He wakes slowly, to the rumbling of the train. He yawns, stretching, before patting down his pockets. Rations. Water. A few coins. Nothing missing.

The sun is bright now, reflecting off the white snow and bringing tears to his eyes, but it isn’t warm nor inviting -- not the type of sunlight Mischa loves. Hannibal still forces himself to look for a little while longer. 

A buck bounds out of the treeline. Hannibal’s eyes dart over to the warm flash of mottled brown and black, welcome against the starkness of the landscape. Hannibal imagines there can’t be much of anything in terms of food out here, but the buck doesn’t seem perturbed nor starved. Such a brilliant creature. Surely it must have a way. Its antlers are a glorious rack, stretching out to the sky, yet never tangling in the underbrush and low-hanging branches of naked trees. Grace. Power.

It blinks at Hannibal. Hannibal nods in acknowledgement, feeling silly.

But then it nods back and bounds off into the woods and Hannibal chokes.

Despite himself, Hannibal is out of words and out of breath. Not in shock, but rather from the feeling of having touched some god. It needn’t be real; he just has to feel it. And in his heart he knows it is true.

* * *

There is no one waiting at the station. Hannibal doesn’t expect there to be. A few passengers step off here -- it is a prominent town after all -- but Hannibal stays put. His destination is close, but not yet here.

The woman from before steps off as well. She blends into the crowd. Alone.

Hannibal’s eyes widen, unbidden. Despite himself, he presses his nose to the frosty glass, not unlike a child watching their father leave for war. He searches not unkeenly. The woman is jittery. Her eyes dart around, guilt flushes her cheeks and colours her eyes red, but there is a sense of relief in the way she hurries from the train and never casts a single look back. And the baby is nowhere to be found.

The pieces click and Hannibal finds himself rising from his seat. The boy had temporarily left his mind -- fatigue and Pan’s messenger greater distractions than he thought -- but the seed of intrigue had been planted deeply between his ribs. The absence of Mischa for what must be hours now has driven him close to a panic. He cannot imagine never seeing those crystalline eyes ever again, no matter whose face they are set into.

He curses himself now. It was an oversight not to remember where the woman sat, but it should be before him. 

Unfortunately, while his section of the train is empty the rest isn’t. There will be strange looks towards a strange boy with ill-fitting clothes, perhaps even a sweet offering of a home that will soon turn sour.

The very first thing he hears is -- “Where are your parents, son?” Then a large hand clamps down on his shoulder, and all he can smell is cheap alcohol and sweat and greed.

Hannibal steps aside. The man allows him to.

“They are waiting at the next stop, sir,” he says, face flat.

There’s a flash of something as the man calculates his odds, then decides it likely isn’t worth it. He cannot run and the next stop is fast approaching. There is no way for him to take Hannibal without someone noticing, and Hannibal isn’t a particularly young child. The reward is unattractive, suddenly, even in the chaos of war.

He makes a choice.

“Alright, sonny, just wanted to make sure you were safe. Awful cold today,” he mumbles gruffly, grunts like a savage, then sits back down.

Smart, Hannibal decides, but no less disgusting.

The rest of the journey down happens relatively quickly. Most people had the senses to mind their own business and not get involved, which Hannibal appreciated. Without sheep, being better meant nothing. 

The seats are rough beneath his palms as he steadies himself, a steadfast reminder that he is in the gaping maw of a dangerous beast. Each step grew harder and harder as he tried not to gaze around too desperately, lest someone take advantage of his desires, but it’s harder said than done. He is only human. He can be afraid as well.

The rationality of his fears provide a small comfort. He is not sheep. He has every right to be afraid, even if it disgusts him.

He pushes forward, one step at a time.

Hannibal has a habit of noticing things. Many people have called his eyes unsettling as he picks up on small, unnoticeable facts about everyone he meets, but they do not realise his sense of smell is far more uncanny. 

He searches for the smell of mother’s milk. He remembers it on Mischa -- it’s deeply rooted in his mind palace, comforting, just a little ways past their childhood room, right into a small nursery. It’s a sweet smell, almost sickeningly so, chokingly thick with vitality and innocence that clings to every piece of Hannibal that indulges.

Then it hits him with such subtlety he wonders if it’s a product of his wishful thinking. 

A curl, as soft the scent itself, wends its way around Hannibal. It goes up, up, up through his nose and settles heavily in his veins, down, down, down to his curling toes. His nostrils flare. He pulls his jacket closer. It consumes his very focus and reasoning as he trails after the lead, desperate to cling to a very small possibility. This must be what they warned children of: hedonism, because at the moment Hannibal is drunk on his desires.

The seats are empty before him, rough linen and peeling paint but no sign of breathing life. Hannibal shakes his head. He refuses. He refuses. Those blue eyes will be his and if for nothing else, he will see them one last time and firmly commit them to memory. 

But even now he knows the child will be his. 

The child was his the moment Hannibal laid eyes on those eyes.

A soft gasp.

Hannibal’s eyes whip over the source of the sound -- the storage beneath the seat. He treads forward carefully, conscious that the car before him is as empty as could be, but senses are often lacking in the cold. Smell cannot travel as well as in the summer heat. It’s unnerving to lose such a large part of himself.

His fingers are still and rough with dry cold as he crouches and reaches for the handle. The round knob fits nicely into his palm.

He pulls.

With a small puff of dust it pops open.

Crystalline eyes blink up at him, unafraid and intelligent; Hannibal smiles, startled.

“Oh,” he gasps, stroking against the child’s forehead. He makes a decision then and there. “I think I will keep you. What do you think about that?”

The child giggles and mouths at his thumb.

Hannibal beams. “Wonderful. Truly wonderful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dukrytė - daughter (term of affection)  
> saulytė - sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> saulytė - sunshine


End file.
